Black Ice
by Locheline
Summary: Sam and Dean are hunting a renegade spirit...or are they? Meanwhile, Logan is checking in on some shady figures from his past...rating is a blanket one.
1. Murder Done Wrong

This story is set after the Origins movie, but before X-1, in that little uneventful gap in Logan's life. It's also assuming that he hasn't lost his memories, or has regained them somehow...I haven't decided that yet. Sam and Dean are on a hunt, of course, but it's going down before the apocalypse and during Sam's little demon blood addiction. Enjoy and please send me a review!

Update: I'm afraid all you first fifty-or-so readers that got to this found it before I had a chance to figure out the fine workings of FF.N's coding system. So now I've added italics for thought and some breaks to split the thing up. It should make it a bit easier to read.

* * *

The road was bright at night, the snow reflecting back from trees and pavement alike. The sky was black, though, not tinged with reddish gray where the moon might shine through clouds. The stars were clear. Though Dean was sure another storm would be coming along soon, he could appreciate the clarity for a while. This trip had been going fine up to this point, and he wasn't worried about the weather.

Sam sat in the passenger seat, dutifully ignoring George Thoroughgood's _One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer_ blasting from the speakers. He had a wrinkled newspaper unfolded in front of him, a highlighter in one hand and a frown on his face. After a few minutes he folded up the paper and took out a worn black book, flipping it open and turning the pages with practiced hands, the same confused look on his face.

"Can't find anything?" Dean asked, glancing at him quickly before turning back to the road. When Sam shook his head, a frown slid onto Dean's face, the expression mirroring his brother's. They'd never had so much trouble finding a monster...even though it was damn obvious that whatever it was they'd run into wasn't human.

"Nothing new...it just doesn't fit," Sam said, his voice husky with exasperation. "I mean, it's not a demon or a werewolf, or a shapeshifter. Not a spirit either, as far as I can tell, and it's too strong to be anything else. I can't find a single thing that fits the pattern well enough to give us an identification."

"Is it a trickster?" Dean asked gruffly.

"Nah, I really doubt it." Sam huffed out a huge breath of air. "If we don't find anything in town, we might have to call Bobby."

"Well, let's look around some on our own first," Dean said with finality, turning up the music. They'd figure it out soon enough. They always did.

* * *

"Where is he?" a gruff voice cut through the darkness.

The man whimpered, partly out of pain and mostly out of fear. How did it feel to die?

"You sonofabitch," the voice snarled quietly at this response, and the soft whisper of a knife through skin accompanied the man's agonized cry. "I got all night, soldier."

The man whimpered again, sweat and blood smeared across his face. "Ask Bradley...I don't know a damn thing, just ask Bradley, please God..."

The owner of the first voice rolled his eyes, moonlight glinting off the wolfish amber irises as he did. "Jesus, boy, you're gettin' delirious." He leaned down and crouched on one knee so that he was shorter than his prisoner, who was collapsed in a cheap plastic chair. "I already talked to Bradley. He ain't got nothin' to say." The stranger leaned closer, one heavily muscled arm resting on his knee as his features wrinkled into a snarl. "He told me to come ta you."

The man's eyes widened and he cringed away from the stranger's cold gaze. If Logan really had talked to Bradley, it was a good bet that the other soldier was now dead. A very good bet. "I-I have no idea...I don't know where he is..." the man stammered, rolling his head back and forth in a panicked shake. "I don't know, I don't..." He kept muttering in a breathless voice, pleading silently for life and death at the same time. If it had to be the latter, he at least hoped it would be quick.

"I'm tired of chasin' my own tail, boy," Logan said in a cold voice. "An' I think you're lyin' through your teeth." He stood up, his expression shadowed by his heavy black brows and the shadows they cast. "I ain't got time for this shit." The man in the chair whimpered louder as he realized just what Logan was saying. No...no, no, no no no! What about his career, his money, his house? His reputation, for god's sake? But his life didn't even have time to flash before his eyes when the shadowy stranger whipped around and took his vitality away.

Logan didn't flinch as the weight of his victim slumped onto the knives in his hand. He just pulled the weapons out and walked away.

* * *

"Hello, sir," Dean said with a confident smile as he stood at the sheriff's front desk in Nevada City, California. "I'm Dean, and this is Sam...we're the U.S. Marshalls assigned to the Bradley case?" He and Sam flashed their phony badges before tucking the leather wallets back into their pants' pockets. Recognition dawned in the cop's eyes and he held out a hand to shake. "Yeah, sure," he said in an eager-to-please tone. "I'm Sheriff Brandt." The brothers shook the officer's hand, one after the other, and he continued. "The body was found in the Sergeant House, over on Broad Street. I could take you over there if you'd like."

"That would be great," Sam said earnestly. As he and Dean followed the police officer back out the door, they exchanged a skeptic look. _Who gives their house a name?_

"Do you men mind too much if we walk over there? It's just around the block," the sheriff asked.

Dean answered without hesitation. "Let's drive." No need to spend more time with the cop than absolutely necessary, even if he'd accepted their cover without hesitation.

"Ah, I guess you warm-weather folks aren't much for frost, are ya?" Brandt joked as they crunched across the snow. It was only a few inches thick over the street, nowhere near the deepest Dean had seen, but he nodded anyways. "I guess we aren't."

The drive really was short, but it spared the brothers from having to answer any awkward questions. The sheriff drove halfway around the block, Pine Street merging into Broad with as much grace as the rutted pavement would allow, and stopped in front of a large white mansion. The place could have been nice, a real special old thing in its day, but now it looked terribly dilapidated. The yard was overgrown, graying stems from dead flowers and the remnants of several rosebushes pushing their heads above the snow. The paint was cracking away from the walls of the house, revealing a gray undercoat, and the porch sagged dismally. A branch from the giant redwood in the yard leaned against the cast iron fence that surrounded the property; the branch had to be fifteen feet long, and as thick as a man's thigh. It was buried in snow and old pine needles, too, making it painfully obvious just how long it had been lying there.

The sheriff explained the mess with a wave of his hand. "The family that lived here got foreclosed on about six months ago," he said, then shook his head. "The city treasurer, his name was David North, he bought the place a couple of weeks ago. He wanted to turn it into a bed-and-breakfast-at least that's what I heard-but we found his body in the basement yesterday after a neighbor called the police." The cop was fumbling with a huge combination lock now, twisting the numbers until the sequence read '5206'. Sam was tall enough that he could see over the man's shoulder without being too suspicious; he committed the numbers to memory and looked quickly away when Brandt pulled the lock off and turned the handle, revealing the bare interior of the house.

"We found Dave's body in the basement, tied to a chair," the sheriff continued, leading the way through what had probably been a family room, and trotted down a steep old staircase. They passed a small, dark-paneled box set inside the wall and Dean realized with a snort that it was an elevator.

The body wasn't in the basement any more, but the rest of the evidence was, each piece carefully numbered with little paper cards. Dean took in the blood-soaked scene with a frown, sniffing obscurely for sulfur but catching only the odor of rotten flesh. Sam took more of an interest, listening to Brandt's descriptions and throwing in a few questions of his own. No doubt Dean would comment on that later when they were deciding who had to examine the body, but oh well. Someone had to remember the facts.

"The first body was tied to a chair, handcuffed, killed in the exact same way as the second one, but that's where the similarities end," Brand said. "That first man was just bruised up a bit, probably from a tussle, and a little raw where he'd been cuffed." He paused, gesturing at the location of the wound on his own head, and continued. "But the second victim was different...he was _all_ cut up." The sheriff shook his head. "God, it's kinda unnerving when you knew the guy. Anyway, he had some real deep wounds on his arms and legs. I was thinking torture, but I'll leave that up to you. It looked real brutal."

The officer pointed outside. "There weren't any footprints with either death, or any sign of breaking and entering that we could find. We got some real heavy snow two nights ago so that's probably why we couldn't track the killer down that way after the second death, but you'd think we'd find some kind of clue after Bradley's body was found. There wasn't a thing. We did get some fingerprints with Dave's case here..." and Brandt's face crumpled into a confused frown, "...but when we checked them with the database, we got some real weird results."

"Three guys popped up, and at first we just thought the criminal was using some different names, 'cause all the results looked identical. But then...see, the guy looked like he was the same age in all of the shots, but the pictures were taken fifteen years apart. Which would mean that at least forty-five years had passed since that first picture was taken."

"He looked exactly the same in all the shots?" Sam confirmed, a frown wrinkling his brow.

"Yeah, identical. Same expression and everything...and I wouldn't put it past this bastard to kill someone. He looked like he was ready to murder the photographer. Which reminds me," Brandt stared off into space, remembering something. "None of the pictures were mugshots. All three were for the military. Our people searched exclusively for I.D. pictures, but nothing came up, which makes me think the guy just doesn't have one. But that's another guess."

"Did you get a full name for the first victim's face?" Dean asked, still staring at the black-stained carpet. Jesus, that was a lot of blood.

"Yeah, it was, uh, _Christopher_ Bradley? I think that's it. He and Dave didn't have a criminal record, and they were both military. But I'll tell you right now, Dave wasn't a good guy. He might not have committed a crime outright, but he...he conned people. His buying this house didn't go over the honest way. And maybe it's just rumors in a small town, but I heard it from a couple of people: they say he paid half-price for it, too. Friends with the judge or something." Brandt's expression was suspicious and very serious. "Maybe that's why he was killed."

"Anything else you noticed?" Sam asked. "Black smoke, the smell of rotten eggs, anything like that?"

"No, nothing like that," Brandt gave the hunter an odd look. "Why, should I have found something along those lines?"

"No, it's fine," Dean said in a voice that effectively cut off any more questioning. "You don't happen to have a copy of your search results for the killer, do you?"

"As a matter of fact, I do. They're in the car. I can drive you back to the station now, too, if you'd like."

"Thanks, that would be great," Dean said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

When he and Sam were getting in the Impala not five minutes later, he gave his brother a real grin and then started the car. "Looks like we got a mystery on our hands, Sammy!"

* * *

"Dean, you might want to come look at this," Sam said with a frown, pausing on the History Channel as he fiddled with the remote, looking for a game. Dean poked his head around the doorframe of the tiny bathroom the Queens Motel had given them. His hair was still sopping wet from his shower, and a toothbrush was sticking out from between his teeth. He pulled it out and joked, "What's up, finally discover the porn channels?"

Sam ignored the wisecrack. "Isn't this our guy?" The show was about espionage in World War II, and the camera was slowly zooming in on a snapshot of a man in uniform. _Soldiers like this one were given special training for these situations at bases scattered across the country,_ the narrator said in an informative voice.

Sam snatched the packet Sheriff Brandt had given them off the pillow he'd set it on. A quick glance was all he got before the picture shifted, but he thought the photos and the snapshot on T.V. looked close enough. "I think that was him," he said in a confused voice, brows furrowing at the implications.

"See what you can find on him," Dean said, his own suspicions plain on his face. "What were the names that cop gave you...John Howlett and, uh, Logan, right?"

"_James_ and Logan, yeah," Sam replied. He'd already pulled his computer out of its bag and was powering it up.

Three or four hours had passed. Sam hadn't had much luck, but he'd found one or two pictures that looked like their mysterious soldier and a website that listed a marriage license with a Logan Howlett and a woman named Kayla Silverfox. A little more searching found another site that claimed both the man and woman were deceased...at an accident about fifteen years ago, a nuclear reactor had collapsed; that in itself didn't sound like something that happened every day. Kayla's body had been found with a bullet wound that punctured her right lung; Sam guessed that she'd died of blood loss, too little oxygen, or a combination of the two. Logan had disappeared and his body was never found, so the authorities had assumed he'd been crushed under the rubble. A long list of people had gone missing as well, but that did nothing to alleviate Sam's suspicions.

_Fifteen years ago._ Wasn't that when the most recent military photo had been taken?

"Hey, I think I found something," Sam said in a concentrated voice. Dean was watching a hockey game by now; he flicked off the volume and looked over at Sam's computer. His brother tilted the screen so he could see better. "I think this is our guy," he said. Dean snorted. "That can't be true, it says right here that he's dead."

"_Missing,_ not dead. They never found his body. And it was fifteen years ago that the most recent military snapshot was taken, right? It matches up with our timeline perfectly."

"So what're you thinking? Vengeful spirit? Maybe these guys got him killed." Dean was serious now, sarcasm no longer colouring his tone.

"Maybe. I'll start looking for a connection between the victims, why he might've wanted them dead," Sam said, already searching. "If they're all military...wow."

Dean glanced over at the computer screen. Sam was staring at the laptop like it had grown wings. "What is it?" the older hunter asked, not willing to wait for Sam to get around to explaining things.

"They were all in the same unit in Vietnam," Sam said, incredulous. "At least, that's what it says here. It also says that there were about ten guys, and seven are dead...including this Logan person. Two of the men it lists as alive are the two the police found murdered in that mansion...and that leaves one more." Sam shook his head, a worried expression replacing the confused one. "What if this man lives in town, too?"

"What's his name?" Dean asked, frowning at the computer screen. "We can always find out."

"Uh, William Stryker. He's the head of the unit, so if Logan Howlett's looking for revenge then he'll probably be hunting for him."

"We can check it out in the morning. There's nothing we can do this late, anyways." Dean yawned, turning the television's volume back on.

Sam snapped the computer shut. "But what if that's not enough time? This guy killed two men in two nights, and if the third one's around then he's probably out there trying to find him right now." The younger hunter's eyes flashed with concern.

"How could we find him anyway?" Dean asked, a little irritated with his brother. He was trying to relax. It was just another hunt. They could do it the usual way and they wouldn't run into any problems. It really frustrated him that his brother was making sense, though...he just wanted to watch the hockey game long enough to fall asleep. Damn college student.

"We might not need to find this guy, Dean," Sam said in his _I'm-just-so-sensible_ voice. "He'll probably just kill him in the same house he did the others."

"Fine, we'll check it out," Dean groused. "But we're coming back here if he doesn't show after we've waited for an hour."

* * *

The old house was completely silent. Occasionally, Logan would hear a car rushing down the street outside and he would back into the shadows behind the front door. Nevermind that no one would see him in the dark; it was always better to be invisible, just in case.

Especially now. A couple of guys were on his tail, and they sure as hell weren't cops like they'd claimed. He'd listened in on their conversation with the sherriff earlier, and they'd gotten a good bit of intel off of the guy before hightailing it back to the motel. Logan couldn't believe the officer was stupid enough to tell them all the crap he had, but then again, old Brandt couldn't smell their adrenaline like the Canuck could.

Logan could smell it from across the street.

Okay, maybe that was an exaggeration. His nose wasn't perfect. But he'd noticed enough to be able to see that the boys were full of shit.

He could have stopped them any time during the afternoon. Just broken into their room at the Queens and told them to haul their asses straight out of town. But he just had Stryker left and he'd be done; it didn't seem worth the trouble to chase them off. They could stay as long as they liked when he was finished. Six billion people in the world, and everybody had to care this fucking much for three of them. Three old criminals who'd wandered through life for too long and never done any good. Logan could have said the same thing about himself, but he didn't have a choice in the matter, and he wasn't the kind of man to get all weepy about shit he couldn't change. He'd just let the chips fall where they may, and if he died, what the hell? He'd already survived through a century and a half of war. That was more than enough for him.

So here he was. Stryker's car was rigged to fall apart practically on the doorstep, and there was a light on upstairs. Logan'd be damned if Stryker didn't come to the front door looking for a free room, the narcissistic bastard. William was in his seventies now, an old man, but Logan was still in his prime...and probably would be for a long time to come.

That was when he heard the voices. The first one was a whisper, but not a quiet one; the man talking like that didn't care if he was heard. The second guy just shushed the first one when he got too loud.

Fuck, the boys were back. Logan growled to himself and strode silently to the back of the house. He waited by the door for the intruders to pick the lock, their voices much too loud to be ignored. Shifting his weight, nervous energy barely contained, he waited, his instincts firing like pistons as they urged him to run or attack...anything to ensure that he lived. Jesus fucking Christ. At least he wouldn't have to wait long.

The first one to step through the entryway was the shorter kid; Logan grabbed him by the shoulders and threw him across the room. The guy's head left a dent in the wall, paint cracking and dust settling on him as he slid to the floor. The second one was ready by then, the bigger one, and he came in with his gun raised. As Logan turned back around the second kid fired his rifle straight at James' head...it didn't injure him permanently, but it hurt like hell. What was that thing loaded with, salt? James snarled and took the bastard down with a good, old-fashioned slug to the jaw. The kid was pretty big, six feet tall at the least with plenty of muscle all around, but in a hundred years of fighting Logan had learned to pack one helluva punch.

Another sound caught Logan's attention almost immediately after the second guy hit the floor. Someone's car was sputtering to a stop out front, clearly out of gas. A few quiet curses could be heard, and after a couple of seconds the driver's door opened, slammed shut, and a pair of dress shoes scraped through the snow. Good. It was about damn time William showed up.

Then another voice. "Honey, can't we just call AAA? It's too late for this."

_What? Stryker remarried?_

"It's fine, Julia, I'm just going to ask if someone here has a can of gasoline handy. Don't bother calling anyone, it'll take that damn company too long to get here anyway."

"Well, hurry up. I have a show taping at home."

"It'll only take a minute, dear." Sigh. Crunch, crunch, crunch went the shoes. Logan quickly strode through the empty house to the front door, unlocking the thing with a quiet click. He'd gotten rid of the sheriff's padlock earlier, stuck it in an envelope with the police station's address written on the outside and mailed it. Normally he wouldn't waste his time on something so childish, but that cop was really pissing him off.

Jesus, this was too easy. Stryker came right up to the stoop and knocked, waited patiently for the half-second it took Logan to open the door and stood relatively still as James dragged him inside. Logan held one hand over the man's mouth and the other fisted against his back; the threat was just as dangerous without words. As James herded William towards the stairs down to the basement he heard the Colonel's wife gasp, and then-_dear god, no-_-let out a scream that would wake the dead. Goddamnit, she was a fucking grandmother! Didn't she have an oxygen tank or something to shut her up?

He'd have to go faster than this.

In that instant, his fist against Stryker's back became more than just a threat. The Colonel's muffled cry of agony joined his wife's terrified howling as Logan shoved the knives in his forearm out between his knuckles and through William's kidneys. Three more blades exploded out of his other hand and he sent them through his victim's skull, slicing downwards with a violent twist. This was one man he didn't want surviving.

Two heartbeats quickened almost simultaneously behind him...the boys were waking up. A loud pounding echoed from the front door. "William!" the Colonel's wife screamed. "Whoever has my husband in there, let him go! Let him go, let him out, he just wanted some gas for the car, let him go!"

Logan sheathed his claws and strode over to the door, opening it just enough to poke his head out. "Ma'am, that man o' yours has tried to kill me more times than one. His life for what he done is one helluva fucked up trade." Hatred laced every word. "Ya might wanna call th' cops now, but I'll be damned if them idiots c'n catch me." He slammed the door in her face just as the smaller of the boys rolled to his feet; he looked like hell but seemed ready enough for a fight. "Jesus christ," he muttered when he saw the body on the floor.

"Little bloody, ain't it?" Logan snarled, grabbing the kid's collar and dragging the boy towards the back door with him. 'Little bloody' was the understatement of the day; the all-too-familiar red liquid was pooling quickly in the foyer, coagulating in the cracks between the floorboards. The smell of iron was overwhelming.

The kid seemed to come to his senses when they were halfway out the back door. He grabbed onto the doorframe with his left hand and punched Logan with his right, earning himself little more than a broken wrist. "What the hell?" he cursed under his breath as his fist crumpled against Logan's metal-coated skull. "Idiot," James growled and kept on walking, quickly making his way out the back gate of the property and onto a sidestreet before he stopped. He swung the kid around to face him, yanking the guy down to his height...the boy was at least a foot taller, but Logan had stopped noticing shit like that a long time ago. "Where's yer car?" he snarled, giving the kid a hard shake as he did. Wonder of wonders, the boy didn't smell too scared, but then again he went around posing as a U.S. Marshall for fun. Go figure.

"Why the hell would I tell you where my friggin' car is?" the kid blared. Fuck, he was loud.

"'Cause I need a ride," Logan growled, "An' I ain't got too many options! So tell me where the damn car is!"

"I'm not helping some psycho killer get away from a crime scene!" the boy snapped back, "And even if I was, my brother's still in that house, and I am not leaving him here!"

A growl rippled through Logan's chest, impossible to contain. In any case, he wasn't in the mood to try holding it back. "You want ta get yer brother out? Fine! I'll get yer fuckin' brother for ya, an' you c'n go get the car while I do! S'at good enough for ya?" He whipped around and stalked back onto the Sergeant property, all too aware that his new friend was catching him up.

"I'm not leaving you with my brother," the kid growled in a tone that Logan was pretty sure he'd meant to be intimidating.

"Ya get how close we are to that sheriff you boys love so much?" James hissed, as the kid sucked in a shocked breath. _Yeah, I saw you three talkin' it up,_ Logan thought to himself. Out loud, he continued his tirade as he yanked the back door of the house open. "That bastard probably heard the scream himself. The faster we get outta here, the better off we'll be." He took a second to listen inside before deciding William's wife was still out front. The tall kid was on his feet by now, and he didn't look happy. That was made all too obvious when James stepped through the entryway and got another round to the head.

"Goddamnit, boy, quit firin' that fool gun!" Logan roared, striding over and dragging the kid outside by his collar. He yanked the gun away and held it up to the shorter brother's head.

"Now, boy, you're gonna show me where that car is."


	2. WHAT kind of blood?

Sorry for the _really_ slow update, guys! You probably don't want to hear the excuse, but here it is: I've been grounded from the computer. Bad grades. So I snuck on two days ago to e-mail this to myself, where I could pick it up on my iPod and work on it. Then had to sneak on again to edit and post it...but there you have it.

If it makes you feel any better, I'm already working on the next chapter.

Slinky: I'm glad you enjoyed it! I've only read the _Wolverines, Wendigoes & Winchesters_ story by SciFiNut, but it was definitely a big inspiration for this story. So was _The Meaning of Pain_ by BlackDewInTheMorning...you might like that one, if you aren't reading it already. I became a Wolvie fan from the movies-oddly enough from the Origins film, the one everybody seems to hate so much-but I've grown to enjoy the more feral comic version more over time.

Vicky: Thanks for the feedback...it's sort of an old roleplaying habit. I've gotten rid of the bold, and it won't be back again!

Enjoy!

* * *

Dean obediently led the way to the car, not willing to take his chances with grabbing the gun. Sam did the same, albeit with more caution; he'd seen this guy take two shots of rock salt to the head without blinking an eye. He wasn't gonna take his chances in messing with him. Whatever kind of monster this Logan was, he wasn't just going to roll over and die.

When they got to the car, the stranger bumped Dean's head with the barrel of the gun. "Keys," he growled shortly. Dean turned around to stare. "You have _got_ to be kidding me."

"Boy, ya sound like a fucking woman. My finger's gettin' twitchy here."

Dean pulled the keys out of his pocket and slapped them into the man's waiting hand, muttering sourly to himself. Logan yanked the back door open and Dean climbed inside, settling down with a huff and tapping one defiant foot against the floor. Sam went around and opened the passenger door out of habit before Logan climbed into the driver's seat and Sam realized he was about to settle down next to a proven killer. He hesitated, one foot in and one foot still out on the curb, until the man growled, "Any day, kid," in a vicious tone. Sam quickly jumped inside.

An ominous silence stretched between the three men as Logan shuffled around with the keys to find the right one, the metal jingling coldly in the relative quiet. Suddenly the Canuck coughed out a low chuckle and a mirthless grin briefly flickered across his face. Sam glanced at Dean with a look that was much more than just worried; who was this lunatic that they were driving away with? As if he could read their thoughts, or more accurately smell their concern, the stranger said, "Cops're comin'." He stuck the key in the ignition and the Impala roared into action, pistons making the dashboard vibrate; he then paused to light a cigar before stepping on the gas. The car jerked abruptly forwards, throwing the brothers against their seats and earning a few curses from Dean as it did. Sam was about to wonder aloud whether the police were actually on their way when several sets of sirens sounded ominously through the streets.

Logan took the turns out of town as fast as was possible in the old car, the needle on the speedometer falling ominously towards a hundred miles per hour; Dean cursed even more and Sam held on for dear life.

After a while, the younger hunter realized that this man had no intention of slowing down. "Don't you think we can, y'know, slow down now?" he asked on a straightaway, before another wild curve made him suck in a breath. Logan chuckled again. "We're goin' ta Canada, boys, an' I ain't hittin' the brakes 'til we're north of Vancouver."

"How are we supposed to get across the border?" Dean asked in a sarcastic tone. "Think you can just whale on the Mounties until they get out of your way?"

In an undertone, Logan said, "Probably." but then he shook himself and answered in a louder tone. "Ya got more'n just Marshall's badges in here?"

Sam coughed quietly, eyes widening and brows furrowing at the same time to make for an interesting expression. He looked like a fish. Logan nodded. "Thought so. You better find one without a picture; I'll need it."

"Wait-hang on a second." Sam sputtered. He was mad now, and was glowering at this man who had the audacity to steal their car and now wanted their I.D.s, too. "Why are we helping you? We don't even know who you are, you just killed a person back there, an old man for god's sake, and you just want us to come along for the ride? Who the hell _are_ you?"

The stranger grimaced, jerking away slightly when Sam raised his voice sharply. "Kid, I'd still like to be able ta hear myself think by th' time I get up North," he growled, the sound ominously loud in the night's silence. "'Sides, ya already know who I am. That damn sheriff told you plenty before ya even knew I was real."

Silence. Then Dean, in a suspicious voice. "You were in Vietnam?"

Logan's jaw tightened, brows furrowing in an anger that was much blacker than either of the boys had seen all night. "I didn't say a word 'bout Vietnam."

Dean glared suspiciously at the back of the killer's headrest; he was almost positive that the man's words were as good as any confirmation. Sam, sitting beside Logan and watching his reaction firsthand, was sure of it.

* * *

The motel was called the Blackline Resort. It was a collection of trailers, each one split in half by a sheet of steel. The rooms had a bed and a T.V...a rest stop-type bathroom was available outside. There was no shower.

All three men had stayed in worse.

The brothers took one half of a trailer, and Logan took the other. The decision to do this was unanimous, and on Logan's part, tinged with violence. _Ya try to get out, I'll kill ya both._ It was not an idle threat, and the boys knew it.

There hadn't been much conversation on the ride to the motel. It was mostly growls and muttered curses, as the boys tried not to watch the trees blurring by at ninety miles per hour, and Logan tried to ignore the boys. At first, the hunters had tried to press the question about Vietnam...or any question, really. But Logan apparently wasn't one for conversation, and they soon decided that it was better to keep quiet than to tempt the murderer's eyes off the road.

Dean was brave enough to try and turn on his music, and he even thought he'd gotten away with it. But Logan just waited until the hunter was done adjusting the sound before he turned the music all the way down...and pulled the volume knob out of the dashboard with a painful snap. If it had been anyone else, Dean would have kicked them out on the side of the road, but after a few good curses Logan let out a feral snarl and the hunter sat quietly back in his seat.

After that, there was nothing left to say.

* * *

_Click. Squeak. Shuffleshuffle. Squeak. Click._

Logan's eyes flicked open and he rolled out of bed in one fluid movement, grabbing his jacket in another and then-quite suddenly-froze stock-still just inches away from the door. He didn't hear whispers, or more footsteps, or anything that reminded him of an average escape...instead, he heard the lid of a metal bottle being scraped off with a hard twist. And then another footfall. But nothing more.

He opened the door anyway. Might as well get out...that room had met about ten too many couples in the past week. It smelled like a whorehouse, and he hated it.

Logan's own door opened soundlessly, and he thanked his lucky stars that it didn't creak. The night was bright, especially for him, with a full moon that lit the bellies of the clouds like a spotlight. Booze and smoke were pungent here, but only from the other guests...the boy he'd come out to check on just smelled like car oil and dust, two odors that the old Canuck had gotten well acquainted with on the drive to this place. And, strangely enough, there was blood, too, with an oily tinge to it that didn't seem natural.

He held back the urge to recoil at the stench, grimacing and stepping up to the taller brother's side. He knew exactly when the boy had noticed him-the kid gave a little jump and grumbled to himself-but Logan didn't say a word. Just pulled a thick cigar out of his pocket and lit up. As soon as the smoke had covered up most of the oily-iron scent, he took a deep breath and turned to face the kid.

"Why you drinkin' blood, boy?"

His tone was laconic, tired, but Sam was wise enough to catch the suspicion that just barely seeped into his words. There was no way he was getting out of this one. But his eyes still got big and his brows still came down. Just like a fish. "I'm not drinking blood!"

"That sure ain't whiskey, kid, and you know it."

"How do you know it's not?" And then it was Sam's turn to be suspicious. "Y'know what, how _do_ you know it's not whiskey?"

The hunter watched the murderer shift his weight uncomfortably, and a low sound nagged at his ear...he could have sworn it was a growl. _Was this freak _growling_ at him?_ The sound grew, shifting easily into words. "I got my ways."

Sam snorted. "Yeah, well, you're lucky you're not dead. And I'd really like to know how you figured out that this is blood." he hesitated, then added as an afterthought, "_If_ it's blood."

The man growled again. "I got my ways." And from the look in his eyes, there would be no dragging the answer out of him.

"Fine." Sam was feeling snappish now; he'd come out here so he wouldn't be causing any trouble, and apparently he still was. "Then this isn't blood."

"Y'know...I'll just ask your brother about it in the mornin'. He'll tell me a shitload, 'specially since I've got a feelin' he doesn't like you drinkin' whatever's in that bottle." The murderer bared his teeth in a wolfish smile, and Sam tensed, adrenaline suddenly jolting through his veins. _Where was his gun?_ "He won't tell you a thing."

"Wanna bet?"

And with that, the stranger went back to his room.


	3. The Healing Powers of Whiskey

Hello again everyone!

I can't remember when I posted the last chapter...I'll have to check. Anyway, I was lucky to get this up...we had an early-winter storm in my town. It was only six inches, but it was wet as hell, and the power lines and tree branches were falling, transformers were blowing, and we were out of power for two nights.

North Cal usually only gets that kind of thing in January.

Anyway, thank you Slinky and Ranchan, I'm glad you thought it was funny! I do like there to be some comic relief thrown in there, even though it's a relatively serious story. Thanks for reading!

* * *

The day was cold and clear, with a blue sky that was a lively backdrop behind the glowing snow. The ice was melting from the pines, leaving them a deep but verdant green, and the road was clear.

Thank god for small miracles.

Dean was sitting in the front of the Impala with the Psycho Killer, and Sam was sulking in the back seat. Waking up had been odd-though Dean would consider himself an early riser, he rarely got up to leave at two in the morning-but the conversation between his brother and the stranger had been chock-full of intrigue, more than enough to keep him awake. Sam was sullen and the killer was worse, and they'd come dangerously close to blows in the parking lot. Dean had no clue what was going on, but he figured it might be a good idea to find out.

And then, out of the blue, the answer came. A single amber eye reflected in the rearview mirror was all the warning he got. "You know why yer brother's drinkin' blood out of a whiskey flask?"

Just like that.

The boys were speechless for a few seconds, both horrified...but for different reasons. The same basic scent still electrified the air. Logan picked out disgust from the boy in the back, separating it from Bloody's guilty stench before the two smells could mingle. Sam looked over at the Canuck, shocked, and Dean's bulging eyes had taken over the rearview mirror. Of course, both boys also decided to yell out their responses in tandem.

"Dude!"  
"Sam, seriously?"

Logan growled at the sharp voices and glared at Sam with hard eyes. "Name's Logan, Sam." To Dean, he growled, "It ain't human, either, that's for damn sure."

If it was possible, Sam's eyes got even wider. "I-that-you can't know that!" Sam sputtered. At the same time, Dean opened his mouth. "Seriously, Sam? What the hell?"

"You know somethin' bout that shit?" Logan growled.

"Sure, it's-no, I don't know a damn thing." Dean was distracted, but after a life on the road, he wasn't exactly stupid. Still, he hadn't quite covered up his slip soon enough to hide it from Logan, and the kid smelled plenty suspicious even without the slip of his tongue. Dean knew he'd made a mistake...so he chose to look smart about it instead of naive.

"I'm not telling you anything. And Sam, that has _got_ to be the stupidest thing you've ever done. I mean, c'mon, you chose to do that _now?_"

"I had a good reason!" Sam whined, frustrated. He glared at Logan again...and, pulling out a canteen of water, flung the ice-cold liquid right at the old Canuck's head.

Logan noticed the boy's motions soon enough to dodge most of the spray, but it still splattered over his lap. He let out a snarled curse and gave Sam a rough cuff to the side of his head, knocking the boy's temple against the door with a loud _thud._

"It was just _water!_" Sam protested loudly, pressing a gentle hand to his head. It wasn't bleeding, but that had hurt.

"Sorry if I ain't too gentle," Logan snarled sarcastically back.

"Don't waste the Holy Water, Sam," Dean said coldly, "You already know he's clean."

Logan snorted. "Holy Water? You boys in some kinda heathen cult?"

Dean glared at the rearview mirror and the amber eye reflected there. "I sure as hell _wish_ that was all it was," he muttered darkly.

The eye narrowed, and Dean expected the man to say something...but Logan just grunted and looked away. The two brothers glanced at each other, and Dean made his decision then and there. He just gave in...he was good at reading people, and against all odds he trusted this man enough to let him hear the truth. "We hunt demons."

Logan growled, and Dean grit his teeth, ready for the storm. "What the hell?" the old Canuck snapped, glaring at Dean in the rearview mirror and then whipping his head to the side to scrutinize Sam with hard black eyes.

"...And-_other_ things," Sam added, surprised at himself. He didn't know why his brother had told the guy about hunting, but what could he do to fix it now?

"That's crazy talk," Logan growled, his voice dangerous, just daring the brothers to lie to him. "You boys don't know what you're sayin."

"We thought you were a vengeful spirit," Dean replied earnestly. "You aren't, obviously, but that's what we thought. And I thought you were a demon. I was wrong again..." and then he frowned, his narrowed eyes the only thing Logan could see in the mirror. "What _are_ you, anyway?"

Logan snarled, but seemed to remember his words at the last minute. "That's none o' yer damn business."

"We're gonna figure it out," Sam muttered to himself, just loud enough to make sure the killer heard him, but quiet enough so that he (hopefully) wouldn't garner a reply.

No such luck. "Shut yer mouth," Logan rumbled in reply.

And the car was silent again.

* * *

Logan crossed the Canadian border about two hundred miles east of Vancouver; it had taken him only nine hours to get from Yreka to British Columbia, traversing a distance that would have taken anyone else at least twelve hours to cross. But even after he'd safely gotten himself and the boys over the border, Logan didn't stop until he'd pulled into a motel in Grande Prairie, Alberta...it was eleven o'clock at night, he was wide awake and even at a level of consciousness that was akin to half dead corpses the brothers had noticed.

"God, I thought we'd never stop..." Sam slurred, stumbling towards the hotel room. Dean chuckled loudly at his brother. "S'not my fault!" the younger hunter whined in protest. Logan watched them languidly, puffing at a Colorado he'd fished out of his pocket. He hadn't bothered to get himself a room...it seemed like a painful waste of money when he wasn't all that tired and he could sleep just fine out on the curb. He listened absently as the boys dragged themselves inside, locked the door and collapsed on their beds. The Canuck shook his head in amusement...they didn't even take off their shoes.

But his good mood faded as soon as they started talking.

"Whadda _you_ think he is?" Dean mumbled, his voice muffled through a pillow. Sam was silent for a long time, but eventually he did respond. "I dunno. Y'really think he was in 'Nam?"

"Dunno." There was a pause. "How'd he know it was demon blood?" And then Logan heard someone sit up, and a pair of shoes thunk on the floor. "You didn't tell him yourself, did you?"

"No!" Sam's voice was as earnest as it could be while he was still half-conscious. "No, he-he just kinda knew, I dunno. Scared me when he came out, too, I didn't hear him at all..."

"Just don't do it again, okay?" Dean was dead serious now, his words relatively well-articulated. "I mean, that was pretty stupid. I thought you...I guess I didn't think you'd stopped, but..."

"...nope..." came the response-and then the boys were asleep.

Logan could feel the growl rumbling in his chest; he didn't bother to contain it. He turned away from the hotel room and stalked down the block, heading for the nearest gas station. Hopefully they had something strong...he didn't think a Molsen would do it tonight. The sidewalk was coated with a gritty layer of snow mixed with dirt, and there were huge piles of snow in some of the parking lots where the plows had abandoned their loads. Winter in Alberta was a lot harsher than winter in California, and Logan examined the icicles on the streetlamps as he exhaled in plumes of creamy smoke. He rounded a corner and walked into the food mart of the Petro-Canada station, the light and warmth closing in on him like a golden trap. He went straight to the back, following his nose until he found the booze, and picked up two of the biggest bottles of whiskey he could find.

The kid at the counter gave him a look and grinned, showing off a yellowing smile that was missing one too many teeth. Logan caught the scent of speed. "You really going to drink that shit?" the guy asked, rocking back on his heels as he rang up Logan's purchases, but his cocky smile faded as Logan glared.

"At least I ain't killin' myself over the habit," the Canuck growled as he walked out. He didn't bother to look back and see what kind of a reaction he'd garnered.

He wandered the city for a long while before returning to the motel, emptying one bottle before he got back and leaving it in a pile of slush by the street. He finished the other one while he was leaning against the hood of the Impala. The drinks were finished all too fast, and Logan found himself clipping the end of another cigar sooner than he'd expected.

Throughout the night, one long-suffering thought was running through his head: _What did I get myself into?_


	4. Cars, Claws and Telephone Calls

Do I find it interesting that I start every chapter with a description of the road conditions? Yes, yes I do.

Here's one of two chapters where I actually have a plan for what will happen. The next one will be like that too-as in, I have a plan-but I haven't written it yet. Hopefully this will make you guys happy though, since I know from my own alerts that no one's been adding chapters. The holidays are too busy!

And thank you to all reviewers and bookmark-ers and readers in general! You inspire me more than a hundred seasons of Supernatural and any number of X-men fics ever could.

* * *

The roads were straight and fast up north, coated with a thin, greasy layer of ice and bordered by more pines than you'd ever see in your life. Logan took full advantage of the relative freedom, the gas pedal tapping against the floor and the Impala occasionally leaving the road as it crested hills.

"Why do you have to drive so fast?" Sam hadn't gotten used to the speed yet, and even though the highway wasn't exactly weaving through the trees it still made him queasy.

Logan glanced at him and raised an eyebrow. "'Cause it's fun." He spoke as if this was a known fact, and the hunter was a complete idiot for asking about it.

Sam snorted at Logan's choice of words. "Killing, strong alcohol and driving so fast that your _face_ peels off. What else do you like to do in your spare time?"

Logan growled. "I ain't fond of the killin', boy. I had a history with those bastards that'd give you nightmares."

"You'd be surprised at what could give me nightmares," Sam sneered and looked out the windshield at the racing trees. He frowned; was it just him, or were they passing more slowly?

A strange but somewhat familiar sound caught the hunter's ear, like two pieces of silverware rubbing together through a hunk of meat. It was quick-almost silent-and when he glanced down there were three enormous knives just centimeters away from his throat. Sam gasped and choked on his own breath, swallowing convulsively, But he didn't move an inch. The killer was still watching the road. If he accidentally twitched, or flicked his wrist on purpose...

What Sam's eyes were telling him took a little bit longer to get through to his head than the thoughts about his own morality.

"Those-they, ah-they come _out_ of your _hand_." He made a face and pressed his back harder against the seat.

"They sure as hell do," Logan replied coldly-and then the claws were suddenly gone, snapped back up into his forearms. He put his hand on the gearshift as if it had been there all along. Sam watched it like it was a poisonous snake.

"_That's_ my history with those fuckers." The Canuck's voice was low and black with anger; not just irritation like it had been before. "There's a lot more to it that I ain't sharin'. Ya still want to figure where in hell I come from? Have another talk with your brother-'m sure you two'll find some kinda explanation that suits ya."

Sam was silent for a minute, affected by Logan's tone and still somewhat shocked. And then he did speak, an insolent anger seeping into his tone. "You were_ listening_ to us?"

Logan snorted. "I heard you...an' I went to get some booze."

Sam frowned at that, unsure what to make of this guy. Was he trying to be friendly, to find a common ground? Or was he just dealing with the brothers while he had to?

_No, that can't be it._ He was still towing them around Alberta. _But why? He obviously doesn't care._

Or maybe he did.

Sam glanced back at his brother; Dean was leaning sideways across the back seats, his head lolling against the window. He wasn't snoring yet, but he soon would be. Sam wished his brother would wake up-he didn't trust his luck with Logan-but he just sighed and turned to look out through the windshield again. It was silent for a few minutes.

"Can we stop at the next gas station, or whatever?" Sam asked at length. He looked over after a short pause and saw Logan's jaw muscles working angrily beneath the skin-apparently he didn't like that idea-but the Canadian just gave Sam a quick nod and readjusted his hand on the gearshift.

Sam took that as a not-so-subtle hint to shut up.

* * *

The Petro-Canada on the side of the road wasn't part of any town, but it was still spotlessly clean and brightly lit...a testament to the company, or at least to the strict policies they had in place. Logan pulled up to the pump and stopped the car with a jerk; Dean was awake by now, and he grumbled about Logan's harsh treatment of his vehicle as they all clambered out. Wolverine ignored him; he didn't bother to spare the hunter a second glance as he turned away to fill the Impala's tank, and Dean's complaints tapered off as he headed for the station's standard Food Mart.

Sam went looking for a phone.

The brothers had left all of their belongings back at the Queen's Inn-clothes, computer, and for Sam, his phone-and common sense told the younger hunter that they weren't going back any time soon. He didn't know if Dean had brought his cell with him or not, and he didn't really want to ask to use it...that guy Logan might find out and take away their last resort. But he had to do something to get them out of this mess. The situation had gone from dangerous to deadly when Sam saw those knives come out of the killer's arm, and now the hunter was going to call in some outside help.

The payphone was on the sidewalk behind the Food Mart, but it was still in sight of the pump. Luckily Sam /had/ brought his wallet, and since he and Dean paid with cash most of the time (to avoid a paper trail), he had plenty of change. He slid a few quarters into the slot and dialed one of Bobby's numbers, occasionally glancing back at the car to make sure he wasn't being watched. He wasn't.

Bobby picked up on the third ring. "Hello?"

"Bobby, it's Sam." Sam took a deep breath, relieved that he was having this conversation at all. "Ah, I think we need your help."

"What's goin' on?" Singer asked, instantly suspicious.

"I need you to set up a hunt for us, and be ready to kill when we get there. There's this..._guy_ we've been traveling with who's not...human."

"Whaddya mean, he's a demon or somethin'?"

"No...it's worse than that. He's not a demon at all, and he's more resilient than one anyways. I shot at him with a salt round and it just...bounced off his head."

"You try iron?" Bobby growled sarcastically..._please tell me you tried iron!_ "Silver?"

"Well, no...but if it can't even get into his skull, what's the point?" Sam glanced at the Impala again, then turned back to the phone. "And he has these _knives_ that come out of his hands. I dunno if they come out of both, but they're huge. They have to be half a foot long, at least."

"He has _knives_ comin' out of his _hands?_" Bobby sounded like he didn't believe that. "You sure you ain't been drinkin' too much, boy?"

"I'm sure!" Sam sighed. "Look, if you could just be ready for us when we get there-we really need to take care of this guy. He's...he's dangerous, and I-"

"I'll be there, Sam. Come to my house."

Sam nodded, even though Singer couldn't see it. "Thanks, Bobby."

"See ya in a few days." And the line went dead.

* * *

Dean was already back at the car by the time Sam finished talking to Bobby, eating a skimpy-looking burrito out of a paper wrapper, and Logan was leaning against the gas pump. When Sam walked up, Dean grunted a greeting from around a stuffed mouth and pulled two more burritos out of the plastic shopping bag sitting on the trunk.

"We need to go to South Dakota," Sam announced, taking the food from his brother.

Logan raised an eyebrow, and Dean looked askance at his brother. "Why?"

"Because I talked to Bobby, and he says there's a bunch of demons getting together in Sioux Falls."

Dean frowned. "Why didn't he call me?"

"He was going to, but I called him first. I didn't know you had your phone...I left mine in the hotel room at the Queen's." Sam reluctantly looked over at Logan, questioning him silently about heading south again.

Logan was glowering at Sam now; he pushed away from the gas pump and got in the car, grumbling about 'damn heathen rituals' as he did. The boys got in as well.

"So," Sam started, his voice punching holes in the tense atmosphere. "Are we going to South Dakota?"

"It ain't like I got anythin' better to to," Logan replied sourly, turning the key with a quick jerk of his wrist. Sam wondered briefly how he could turn his arm like that with the knives inside.

"Alright, it's off to Bobby's then!" Dean said with a grin, kicking his feet up in the back seat.

Unfortunately, his good mood didn't take.


	5. Can someone say FREAK?

Hello again! Sorry for the slow update, I'll be quicker next time, I promise…and yes, this is Locheline here, repeating that same promise _again._

At least it's a relatively long chapter, eh?_  
_

Oh, and I'm not sure if Bobby has a T.V., but if not then he saw Logan in the paper.

Enjoy, and Happy Holidays!

* * *

The junkyard was absolutely silent.

It was. It truly was. It would have made Logan relax if he hadn't had some idea of what he was getting into, but as it were the silence was downright nerve-wracking. He got out of the Impala warily, the door closing behind him and the latch making a soft, metallic _click_ as it did. He stepped away from the car with his hands at his sides, his pupils already dilated to twice the size of a normal human's as they stretched to collect as much light as possible. The mountains of scraps looked just as empty as they sounded; nothing moved except the wind, which occasionally caused the grass to rustle or the old cars to creak all around him. A shuffling behind Logan caused him to start and he spun, fisting his hands at his sides but holding the blades at bay. It was just Dean, his clothes rustling as he stepped out of the Impala; he raised an eyebrow at the feral as he slammed his door but kept his mouth shut. Sam got out as well and looked between the two other men with a worried expression on his face…even though he'd been the one aching for a fight back at the Blackline, he definitely didn't smell eager now. Logan assessed him with cold eyes but didn't say a word.

The boys went around to the trunk-their own personal arsenal, as Logan had discovered-and pulled out a couple of guns. While they were loading up, Sam glanced at Dean and muttered, "Just don't shoot anyone in there."

"What?"

"Just don't. I'll explain later."

Dean stared at Sam for a second, wondering whether he was drunk or insane, but just shook his head and cocked his rifle. _Go into a demon hotbed, but don't shoot anything?_ Maybe Sam had officially gone over to the dark side and he just didn't want to get shot. Whatever. Dean was still gonna be ready for a fight.

Sam had tried to keep his voice down as he spoke, but when you could hear a heartbeat from across a crowded room you weren't going to miss much. Logan turned away from the car again so the boys wouldn't hear him growling; he honestly couldn't help himself. _That dumb bastard just didn't learn, did he?_ Wolverine shook off the irritation, took a deep breath, and began parsing scents.

_Oil, gasoline, dust, rubber, paint, steel, vinyl, pine, oak, soap, ceramic, lighter fluid, plastic, leather, wax, grease-  
_  
"What the hell are you doing?"

Logan huffed out a breath of air. "Gimme a minute."

He took another breath through his nose and pushed his sense of smell to its limits.

_Gunpowder, blood, compost, smoke, deer, dog, the sweat of a couple of different people, chlorine, baled hay, airplane fuel, mercury, cotton—_

"Dude, let's _go!_"

Logan turned to face Dean halfway. "Just gimme a fuckin' minute!"

"What do you smell?" Sam asked, his voice cold and his eyes narrow...accusing Wolverine of holding something back.

The Canadian turned all the way around to glare at the younger hunter. "None of yer damn business, boy," he growled as he strode past him towards the scent of the smoke. The two brothers looked at each other with matching expressions of confusion and mistrust before they followed Logan towards Bobby's house.

Wolverine paused on the front porch for a half-second of assessment, took a sniff, then continued around the outside of the house to the side door and slipped silently inside. Sam followed Logan and Dean followed Sam, though the older hunter did it unwillingly at first. "We need to watch the other exits," he whispered loudly to Sam's back. "He doesn't know what he's doing," Sam replied as an explanation; Dean wouldn't have argued if it had sounded less like a half-assed excuse and more like the truth. "Since when do you care about _him?_" he snorted, but his cynicism didn't garner a response. Sam just shook his head at his brother and followed the Canadian inside.

Wolverine had heard them talking, but he wasn't listening hard enough to remember what they'd said. He was instead following a very loud set of lungs to their source in the living room, where they were hiding behind the open doorway into the hall. The house smelled of many things, key among them old books and nicotine, but the mingled scents of a hundred different herbs and spices was what caught the Canadian's attention and rattled his nerves. His mind quickly flipped back to his conversation with the hunters just three days before, and the idea of a crazy old man spouting charms and witchcraft wasn't one that warmed his heart. The feral's wariness wore his patience thin before it even had a chance, and he didn't wait for the boys to catch him up once he'd figured on Bobby's exact position. He just struck.

Bobby had hidden himself in the living room because it was the second place any intruder would pass on the way in, and they would be bolder about coming all the way inside once they got safely through the front door. He'd heard someone padding softly up the porch steps and had shifted the rifle at his shoulder in anticipation, ready to ambush the man Sam had told him about. He wasn't as quick on the draw as he used to be, but he was still a soldier at heart and his aim was true. At this distance, he couldn't miss.

But the footsteps had changed position once again after a short pause and had continued around to the side entrance. Now Bobby's hideout was all wrong. He'd aligned himself in such a position so as to have a good defense against both the front and back doors, but he'd assumed that no one would notice the side door in the shadows of the house.

He'd assumed wrong.

He heard the door open and close once, then twice, but he didn't notice a third set of footsteps shuffling around the house. _What were those boys-  
_  
And then he was pinned against the opposite wall, coughing, wheezing, one of his attacker's hands pressing against his throat and another one holding the rifle. He gasped for breath and raised his free arm above his head in surrender, surveying his attacker with wide eyes before the spots in his vision obscured the bearded face. Bobby's senses slowly settled into the eerie silence and he realized that something was rumbling-his attacker was rumbling-his attacker was _growling_ at him!

_What the hell?_

Sam and Dean came around the corner at that particular moment, Dean holding the Colt at half mast as though he wasn't sure whether he would have to use it or not. Bobby turned his head to look at the boys as they entered and Dean's eyes widened in shock at the older hunter's predicament. He fired three rounds into Logan's back, the shots coming in quick succession, but the man hardly moved an inch. Just shifted his weight a fraction to the right and eased some of the pressure off his prisoner's throat.

Dean lowered the gun. The colt had failed; he was speechless.

"This the bastard you don't want Dean killin' by mistake?" Logan growled at Sam, not taking his eyes off of Bobby in order to speak. His glare was black with fury, and all of the men present knew that he'd do something nasty if his question was left ignored.

Sam stood stock-still in the doorway. "Yes."

"You think this here's some good trick?"

And then Bobby's eyes got impossibly wider as recognition dawned on his face. "Oh dear lord," he gasped.

"What?" It was Sam asking the question.

Bobby blinked. "This is Wolverine."

The growl turned to a snarl and Logan pressed every one of his four  
hundred pound bulk against Bobby's throat. "How do you know?"

"News...the news...Westchester train..."

Bobby's strangled reply had been too soft for the Winchester boys to hear, but his words had made an immediate difference. Logan released Singer and threw him back into the opposite wall with obvious restraint; he was aching to do some real damage. Bobby stumbled obligingly away from the feral, coughing violently, his body curling towards the floor. He didn't drop the gun but held it loosely now; it didn't count for anything any more.

"Who's Wolverine?" Dean asked, his body tense and his fear-scent quickly filling the room after the violent exchange. Logan was still glaring at Bobby, who had now risen to stand at his full height; the Canadian ground his teeth at Dean's question and growled at Bobby. "Don't say a fuckin' thing."

"Why the hell not?"

"Bobby? Who is he?"

And then Logan, repeating himself. "Don't say a fuckin' thing."

Bobby was glaring indignantly at Logan with his arms crossed over his chest. "You really think I was too young to have been alive for all that?" he gave a long-suffering sigh and looked away. "You were in the news twice. Once was the train and twice was in Boston." the hunter looked up again, his eyes narrowing in disbelief. "You're s'posed to be _dead,_ boy."

Logan's eyes narrowed right back. "You don't know the half of it." It didn't sound like he intended to reveal that other half any time soon.

"Bobby, what's going on?" Sam asked the older hunter. He didn't like the sound of the Canadian's feral rumbling...it was spooky how real it sounded. Wild. Logan wasn't just trying to scare them; he was holding himself back from causing serious, regrettable damage. Sam had never come across a monster that restrained itself, but even so the idea of ending Logan's life was extremely attractive at the moment. He looked over and met Bobby's eyes, questioning, and the other hunter subtly shook his head...he knew Sam well enough to know what he was aching to do.

"Don't, Sam. It's alright...at least in the way you're thinking." he sighed again, looking askance at Logan. He'd never thought he'd see this day again, and he wasn't quite sure what he thought about its coming.

"He's a mutant."

There was an awkward silence as Bobby's words sunk in. Then Dean shook his head, snickering at the name. "A what?"

Logan glared at Bobby. "I told ya to shut the fuck up."

"A mutant. A news story. A public danger. A peacemaker. A lot was said about you after that stuff in Boston, ya know."

Logan was quiet for a moment. When he replied, his voice was sharp. "I know. I don't care."

"I ain't sayin' that you do."

The room was silent, but the wordlessness that filled the gap between the two men was unusually loud for white noise. Finally Sam broke the tension. "What happened?" he asked gently, his curiosity getting the better of his mistrust. He now felt like he'd been left out of the loop. Dean, on the other hand, wasn't at all sure he wanted to hear Logan's story. Judging by the man, it wouldn't be a pretty one. But the older brother didn't speak his mind...if Bobby wanted to tell it, then why not let him? Besides, being informed was always preferable to finding yourself unprepared, and Dean knew that better than most. He had to know what he was doing if he wanted to _survive_ in his line of work.

Logan glared at Bobby and then whipped around and left the room, his strides short but obviously restrained. As he walked away he jerked suddenly to his right and slammed his fist through the wall, leaving a sizable hole in the plaster as he did. No one spoke until he'd gone outside, and even after that Sam and Dean were left waiting for Bobby to speak for a minute or two. Eventually the older hunter did, but his voice was lower than it had been before. Wary and respectful. Both boys began to speak in subdued tones from that point on.

"About thirty years ago, there was a generation of people born who were different. They could…_do_ things, move stuff without touchin' it, breathe underwater, that sort of thing. Weird stuff. But they were just people, and some of 'em were dangerous."

Bobby took a breath, resigned, as if what had happened next was inevitable.

"Now the government here in the States was thinkin' of lockin' 'em all up, internment camp-style, at least until they could decide what to do with 'em. They almost got it done, too. But the muties were regular votin' citizens an' they managed to get that one offa the ballot...I guess nobody'd figured that there'd really be so many of 'em around to vote."

"An' then there were some pretty nasty terrorist attacks by the muties, an' a government jockey by the name of Stryker decided he'd kill 'em all off. Just like that. Did it in five minutes, too. Some people called him a national hero, some wrote him off as a murderer, but he killed every damn one of them freaks—"

"Freaks?"

It was Logan. He'd come back inside and was leaning against the far wall, watching them with shadowed eyes. None of the hunters could remember how long he'd been there, but it couldn't have been too long…all three of them were exceptionally observant, and they would have noticed him soon enough on their own if he hadn't drawn on their attention himself. He stood, walked towards them and halted right outside their circle, his movements still painfully slow and restrained just as they'd been on his way out. He ignored the Winchesters and stared Bobby down, his steely expression barely masking his rage. Bobby hadn't been afraid before, not really, but now he could feel his adrenaline rising higher and higher the longer he held Wolverine's gaze.

"You really think that's the way it went, don't ya?"

It was suddenly very quiet. Bobby's lips twitched under the strength of Logan's stare, and the feral's tawny eyes didn't waver in the least for another thirty seconds. Then some internal trigger was switched and he leaned away from Singer, giving him half an inch to himself.

"You watch yer tongue, boy. I ain't denyin' the cold-hard facts, but I don't like how yer puttin' 'em out there, either."

"Don't you think for a second that yer outta the woods with this."


	6. Ruby or Rose?

_So_ sorry for the slow update guys! This time I don't even have a good excuse. Does a lacking muse count? Maybe it would, if I didn't use it as an excuse so often. I was originally intending to go at this chapter from an entirely different angle, but it wasn't working and I lost interest. Well, I reread it again today and almost immediately this popped into my head. So...

Yeah. I'll stop talking now.

I also hope I haven't lost anyone by killing off all the mutants. Maybe I'll find a way to bring some of them back...I dunno. We'll get there when we get there, but I think this is a big enough bunny to keep me occupied for a while.

And thank you, Fox, for your lovely review! It made me feel all warm and fuzzy after failing my math test. :)

Dean's hands and arms were stained with several different varieties of brown grease and engine fluids...braking fluid, power steering, and of course, inevitably, oil. There was a rag on the ground behind him, but it had been awhile since he'd actually bothered to use it. He was too busy to care about how clean he was. He'd already replaced the filters and the oil, had a poke around the distributor, and inspected the injection system...and he was immensely pleased with what he'd seen. Of course, when you rummaged through your vehicle's engine every chance you got-because it just might be your _last_ chance-it wasn't very likely that you'd see anything else. Dean extracted his arm from behind the radiator and glanced at his brother, who was leaning against the trunk reading the paper.

"You ever think about sticking your nose in here instead of _The __Dakota Times?_" Dean asked, referring to Sam's apparent lack of interest in the very car he sat on. The younger hunter looked up and rolled his eyes, mildly irritated with the interruption. "I'm just keeping up on the news, that's all. I mean, we can't exactly leave, but-"

"You c'n leave." It was Logan; he'd materialized on the other side of the Impala and was digging around in the trash heap for the bicycle he knew was there. His ability to find various items in the mountains of junk had quickly been recognized by Bobby, who hadn't wasted an opportunity to put the feral to work. Logan took a firm hold of the bike's handlebars and tugged with all his might; the frame of the bike started to bend, but the damn thing just wasn't coming loose. "I'd leave first," he grumbled distractedly, "but I ain't exactly equipped for it."

Dean snorted. "And it never occurred to you to steal this baby?"

Logan turned halfway towards Dean and raised an eyebrow. "I ain't  
stupid, boy."

"So you _are_ worried about what I'd do to you."

"Nope. Don't want to owe ya anythin'."

Dean snorted. "That sounds a lot like an excuse."

"Wanna say that again, boy?" Logan growled.

They were both joking, even though they didn't sound like it, and neither one had so much as glanced at the other. Dean was already back under the hood.

"Rain tonight," Sam remarked passively.

Logan quirked an eyebrow. Dean, who had returned to his engine, paused and removed himself from its innards once more. "Sam, seriously? Who cares?"

"I do. It's important. And you should put the Impala somewhere it won't get wet."  
"He got a boyfriend yet?" Logan wondered aloud.

"Hey!"

Dean grinned. "No, but we're working on it."

_"Hey!"_  
Logan frowned as Bobby's shouted complaints echoed across the yard. Sam glanced up from his paper but ignored the familiar call; Dean gave no indication that he'd heard a thing.

"Shut the fuck up, Bobby, I'm a goddamn volunteer!" Logan roared, turning back to the trash pile and pulling the bicycle out with a tremendous yank.

Dean jumped at Logan's shout and hit his head on the underside of the hood. His curses were magnificent.

* * *

It had been the week from hell.  
Logan had disappeared completely for the first two days, and the hunters had gone back and forth between worrying about whether or not he'd show up and gut them on sight, or just behead them and be done with it. After he came back, they started worrying about where they wanted their ashes scattered. He was 'a bitch with a taste for blood', as Bobby had put it, and the three of them spent more time tiptoeing around the house than they ever would have thought was possible.

Sam would have been just as cautious as the other two-not going out after dark, for example-but his daily fix couldn't be ignored. So he snuck out into the woods every night and had a little blood to calm his nerves. He could feel the fire in his veins, waiting to be released, and he knew that he'd have to use it up very, very soon.

Logan followed him into the forest on the fourth night of that new routine; it was the second night the mutant had been back from who-knew-where. Sam could feel the fire, and Logan could smell it. It was pissing him off. He wanted Sam to go cold turkey that very night. It was a lot to ask, and Sam didn't think it was worth it. He told Wolverine to take a hike.

That turned out to be a huge mistake on his part, one which could have been a deadly one-though not by Logan's hand. His flask was found in three neat slices the day after the meeting in the woods, sitting at Dean's place on the dinner table, blood dripping slowly onto Bobby's hardwood floor.

Sam had never been so mad. Neither had Dean.

But it had gotten better after that. It was slow improvement, sure, but all of them got better at dealing with each other. Bobby accepted that Logan couldn't leave, Sam accepted that he wouldn't, and Dean took a decidedly indifferent attitude towards the entire thing; he was busy monitoring Sam's activities instead of the mutant's. Logan wasn't trusting any of them and he wouldn't start doing so for a while, but he was resigned to the situation and he intended to let it run its course. So he started helping Bobby out in the junkyard, and he did his best to stay away from the Winchester boys.

-Logan blinked in sudden surprise as something foreign in the air caught his attention. He grabbed the remote from Dean-who let out an offended "Hey!" as he did-and turned the T.V. off, silencing the room. After a short pause Sam started whining about missing the score, but Bobby shut him up with a glare; the veteran had enough experience to know when things were serious. A second passed, then two, and with each passing breath Wolverine's frown deepened further. Finally Sam broke the silence.

"What?"

"Somethin' funny in the kitchen..." and then Logan got up and stalked out.

Bobby got up too and followed the other man out of the room. Dean looked at Sam and left as well. The youngest hunter just rolled his eyes, but after a second of thought decided he wanted to be in on whatever was going on. He sighed, stood, and headed down the hall to catch up.

Logan stopped in the kitchen doorway and sniffed conspicuously at the girl in the center of the room. She was tall, blonde, and beautiful, but she smelled like sin and her eyes were dark. Plus, she should have been dead. Her heart was silent...it was a mystery how she could even be standing up.

Bobby came in behind Logan, stepping fully into the kitchen, and Dean and Sam were along soon after. Sam's eyes got a whole lot bigger when he saw who the visitor was, but Dean's expression hardened into a glare.

"Ruby?"

That scent was so...dammit. It was on the tip of his tongue, what it was, why he remembered it. Then Sam sighed, Logan caught a whiff, and the Wolverine solved the puzzle. It was a realization he could have gone without.

"Demon, huh?" Logan shook his head, narrowing his eyes at Sam. "S'at the shit you're gonna feed me on this one?" He gestured at the girl in front of them. "She's a freak of nature. She ain't even alive."

Sam rolled his eyes. "How do _you_ know?" Then he frowned, did a double-take, and turned back to Logan. "How _do_ you know? I didn't tell you about demons. Did Dean tell you about demons?"

"No. But I heard you boys talkin' 'bout that habit of yours one night, an' you smell a whole lot like this Rose girl does. Or whatever the hell her name was. I ain't so dense I can't figure that out, boy."

Sam frowned. "We were sleep-deprived and delirious that night. We were mumbling in our sleep...I could hardly hear Dean, and he was right next to me. We were _inside_ a motel room-_and, you_ said you left." The hunter gave Wolverine a smug little grin. "There's _no way_ you heard us."

Logan snorted. "Ain't it proof enough that I know about demons?"

Then Ruby stepped forwards, slinking closer with leonine grace. "Who's _this_ nasty little devil you boys have found?" she purred, smiling coldly at Logan himself, taunting him with her flirting. "Should I know his name?"

Logan glared at Bobby, daring him to open his mouth, but it was Sam who looked over and said, "Wolverine." As soon as the name was out, all eyes were on him, and three of four pairs weren't friendly.

Ruby was grinning like a fox now, her narrowed eyes promising hellfire for Logan. "Ooh, a _mutie!_" She cocked her head. "But why aren't you dead? Let's find out!"

"Ruby-"

"Shut up, Sam, I wanna see her bite it."

The demon raised an eyebrow. "You think _I'm_ the one who's gonna hit the dirt?" She snorted. "I'm like a head taller than him."

"Alright then, go ahead, but he's thrown _me_ across the room. I'm just warning you."

Logan had been listening absently to the bickering up until that point, and he'd taken the time to pull out a cigar for himself as he did. He tried to light up, but Bobby snatched the lighter and pocketed it. He glared at Logan and growled, "Not in the kitchen, you don't!"The mutant snarled in wordless defense and turned away to go enjoy the Cuban outside. _Wonder if he's got any matches around here..._

His thoughts of nicotine and smoke didn't last very long; he felt himself suddenly falling sideways and then he was slammed into the wall, pinned there by an invisible force. The plaster cracked on impact and dust sprinkled his head. He tried to shake his head, but he couldn't..._what the fuck?_

"Ooh, you're a heavy little mutie," Ruby cackled, her right hand holding his body against the wall. He snarled at the slur, but he couldn't do anything to shut her up, and she laughed again. "Oh, he's not so tough," she said to Sam, adding an impromptu snort just for good measure. "I thought you told me that he'd be a challenge!"

Dean turned to frown at Sam, suspicion and mistrust all too clear in his expression. "You brought Ruby here on purpose? What the hell were you _thinking?_"

Sam glared at his brother. "I didn't bring her! She found out we were here by herself...I just told her that we had a visitor." He paused, as if he'd just realized that he'd made a nasty verbal mistake but that he knew he couldn't avoid whatever came next. "I talked to her last night. We, ah...we went hunting." He was trying to be tough, but he was cringing on the inside.

Dean frowned incomprehendingly at that. "Hunting what?"

Sam winced slightly in anticipation. "Demons."

It was silent for a very, very long minute after that. Then Bobby growled, "You went off huntin' demons, an' you had a demon's help?"

Sam nodded. Ruby took in the expressions of disbelief around her and rolled her eyes. "Come on. I'm a good girl, remember?"

"The fuck you are," Logan ground out. Ruby just increased the pressure against his throat. "Shut up, you freak."

Wolverine just coughed out a laugh at that, which made all three hunters turn and stare at him like he'd just lost his mind. "You ain't gonna kill me," he scoffed at Ruby-an explanation for them all-before she tried to suffocate him again. "Can't be done."

"I said _shut up!_"

Things suddenly happened very fast, like a record spinning doubletime. Dean lunged at Ruby-he was standing nearest to her-and held his knife up to her throat, pulling her as close as he dared. "Drop him, Ruby," he said, his voice cold. Bobby stepped to the side, lifted the rifle, aimed and fired a round into the demon's head with one motion, dropping the gun again in another. "Ya don't go _bargainin'_ with it, Dean," he growled, exasperated.

Ruby couldn't even glare at Bobby; her face was completely destroyed from the blast. She vacated the girl's body with a thunder of sulfur and smoke and was gone.

Sam ran forward and caught the empty corpse as it crumpled to the ground. "You didn't have to _shoot_ her, Bobby!"

"The hell I didn't," Singer snapped as Logan stepped away from the wall, loudly cracking his neck. "S'about fucking time, too," the mutant snarled in response.

"But you just killed an _innocent girl_," Sam pressed.

"Who was trying to kill _Logan!_"

Sam turned to glare at Dean. "He can't die. Now she's dead. How could you shoot an innocent girl to save a proven killer?"

Logan glanced around at the others and decided he'd better interject. "She was dead already, Sam," he said in a bored voice.

The hunters turned and stared at him. "How the hell do you know that?" Dean asked.

"No heartbeat." Logan shrugged.

Bobby snorted. "Ya can't know that."

"The hell I can't."

"There's no way."

Logan frowned. "It ain't that hard to believe."

Dean shook his head in a motion to clear it. "Look...we need to do something with the body here. Bury it or something. And Sam, _you _need to figure it out with the demon blood thing. We can't have Ruby here."

Bobby nodded. "It ain't safe."

Logan wrinkled his nose at the blood. "That smells like shit. I'm gonna go have a cigar."

He turned to leave, but Sam stepped over the dead body and grabbed the back of his shirt. "You can't just-"

Wolverine snarled and spun around, the motion ripping his shirt from Sam's grasp. The claws snapped out from between the knuckles of his right hand and were immediately at the hunter's throat. Sam held his breath, bewildered by the mutant's response, eyes locked on Logan's left hand grasping his shirt as if staring at it could make it release him.

And then the Wolverine seemed to wake up. His eyes focused on Sam's face, his shoulders relaxed, and the adamantium blades disappeared from sight with a quiet _SNIKT_. He quickly vacated the room and didn't look back.

"Holy shit," Dean cursed as Sam took a deep breath and straightened his shirt. "What the hell was that?"

No one bothered to answer him.


End file.
